Dr. Rumsey's patient

At the appointed hour on the following morning Mrs. Everett was shown into Dr. Rumsey's presence. She found him in his cosy breakfast-room, in the act of helping himself to coffee.

"Ah!" he said, as he placed a chair for her, "what an excellent thing this punctuality is in a woman. Sit down, pray. You shall have your full ten minutes—the clock is only on the stroke of eight."

Mrs. Everett looked too disturbed and anxious even to smile. She untied her bonnet-strings, threw back her mantle, and stared straight at Dr. Rumsey.

"No coffee, thank you," she said. "I breakfasted long ago. Dr. Rumsey, I am nearly wild with excitement and anxiety. I told you long ago, did I not, that a day would come when I should get a clue which might lead to establishing my boy's"—she wet her lips—"my only boy's innocence? Nothing that can happen now will ever, of course, repair what he has lost—his lost youth, his lost healthy outlook on life—but to set him free, even now! To give him his liberty once again! To feel the clasp of his hand on mine! Ah, I nearly go mad at times with longing, but thank God, thank the Providence which is above us all, I do believe I have found a clue at last."

"Tell me what it is," said the doctor, in a kind voice. "I know," he added, "you will make your story as brief as possible."

"I will, my good friend," she replied. She stood up now, her somewhat long arms hung at her sides, she turned her face in all its intense purpose full upon the doctor.

"You know my restless nature," she continued. "I can seldom or never sit still—even my sleep is broken by terrible dreams. All the energy which I possess is fixed upon one thought, and one only—I want to find the real murderer of Horace Frere."

"Yes," said Dr. Rumsey.

"A fortnight ago I made up my mind to do a queer thing. I determined to visit Grandcourt—I mean the village of that name."

The doctor started.

"You are surprised?" said Mrs. Everett; "nevertheless I can account for my longings."

"You need not explain. I quite understand."

"I believe you do. I felt drawn to the place—to the Inn where my son stayed, to the neighborhood. I travelled down to Grandcourt without announcing my intention to any one, and arrived at the Inn just as the dusk was setting in. The landlord, Armitage by name, came out to interview me. I told him who I was. He looked much disturbed, and by no means pleased. I asked him if he would take me in. He went away to consult his wife. She followed him after a moment into the porch with a scared face.

"'I wonder, ma'am, that you like to come here,' she said.

"'I come for one purpose,' I replied. 'I want to see the spot where Horace Frere met his death. I am drawn to this place by the greatest agony which has ever torn a mother's heart. Will you take me in, and will you give me the room in which my son slept?'

"The landlady looked at me in anything but a friendly manner. Her husband whispered something to her—after a time her brow cleared—she nodded to him, and the next moment I was given to understand that my son's old room would be at my disposal. I took possession of it that evening, and my meals were served to me in the little parlor where my boy and the unfortunate Horace Frere had lived together.

"The next day I went out alone at an early hour to visit the Plain. I had never ventured on Salisbury Plain before. The day was a gloomy and stormy one. There were constant showers of rain, and I was almost wet through by the time I reached my destination. I had just got upon the borders of the Plain when I saw a young woman walking a little ahead of me. There was something in the gait which I seemed to recognize, although at first I had only a dim idea that I had ever seen her before. Hurrying my footsteps I came up to her, passed her, and as I did so looked her full in the face. I started then and stopped short. She was the girl who had seen the murder committed, and who had given evidence of the most damnatory kind against my son on the day of the trial. In that one swift glance I saw that she was much altered. She had been a remarkably pretty girl. She had now nearly lost all her comeliness of appearance. Her face was thin, her dress negligent and untidy, on her brow there was a sullen frown. When she saw me she also stood still, her eyes dilated with a curious expression of fear.

"'Who are you?' she said, with a pant.

"'I am Mrs. Everett,' I replied, slowly. 'I am the mother of the man who once lodged in your uncle's house, and who is now expiating the crime of another at Portland prison.'

"She had turned red at first, now she became white.

"'And your name,' I continued, 'is Hetty Armitage.'

"'Why do you say that your son is expatiating the crime of another?' she asked.

"'Because I am his mother. I have looked into his heart, and there is no murder there. But tell me, is not your name Hetty Armitage?'

"'It is not Armitage now,' she answered. 'I am married. I live about three miles from Grandcourt, over in that direction. I am going home now. My husband's name is Vincent. He is a farmer.'

"'You don't look too well off,' I said, for I noticed her shabby dress and run-to-seed appearance.

"'These are hard times for farmers,' she answered.

"'Have you children?' I asked.

"'No,' she replied fiercely, 'I am glad to say I have not.'

"'Why are you glad?' I asked. 'Surely a child is the crown of a married woman's bliss.'

"'It would not be to me,' she cried. 'My heart is full to the brim. I have no room for a child in it.'

"'A full heart generally means happiness,' I said. 'Are you happy?'

"She gave me a queer glance.

"'No, ma'am,' she answered, 'my heart is full of bitterness, of sorrow.' Her eyes looked quite wild. She pressed one of her hands to her forehead,—then stepping out, she half turned round to me.

"'I wish you good-morning, Mrs. Everett,' she said. 'My way lies across here.'

"'Stay a moment before you leave me,' I said. 'I am coming to this plain on a mission which you perhaps can guess. If you are poor you will not despise half a sovereign. I'll give you half a sovereign if you'll show me the exact spot where the murder was committed.'

"She turned from white to red, and from red to white again.

"'I don't like that spot,' she said. 'That night was a terrible night to me; my nerves ain't what they were—I sleep bad, and sometimes I dream. Many and many a time I've seen that murder committed over again. I have seen the look on the face of the murdered man, and the look on the face of the man who did it—Oh, my God, I have seen——'

"She pressed her two hands hard against her eyes.

"I waited quietly until she had recovered her emotion; then I held out the little gold coin.

"'You will take me to the spot?' I asked.

"She clutched the coin suddenly in her hand.

"'This will buy what I live for,' she cried, with passion. 'I can drown thought with this. Come along, ma'am, we are not very far from the place here. I'll take you, and then go on home.'

"She started off, walking in front of me, and keeping well ahead. She went quickly, and yet with a sort of tremulous movement, as though she were not quite certain of herself. We crossed the Plain not far from the Court. I saw the house in the distance, and the curling smoke which rose up out of the trees.

"'Don't walk so fast,' I said. 'I am an old woman, and you take my breath away.' She slackened her steps, but very unwillingly.

"'The family are not often at the Court?' I queried.

"'No,' she answered with a start—'since the old Squire died the place has been most shut up.'

"'I happen to know the present Squire and his wife,' I said.

"She flushed when I said this, gave me a furtive glance, and then pressing one hand to her left side, said abruptly:

"'If you know you can tell me summ'at—he is well, is he?'

"'They are both well,' I answered, surprised at the tone of her voice. 'I should judge them to be a happy couple.'

"'I thank the good God that Mr. Robert is happy,' she said, in a hoarse whisper.

"Once again she hurried her footsteps; at last she stood still on a rising knoll of ground.

"'Do you see this clump of alders?' she said. 'It was here I stood, just on this spot—I was sheltered by the alders, and even if the night had not been so dark they would never have noticed me. Over there to your right it was done. You don't want me to stay any longer now, ma'am, do you?'

"'You can go when I have asked you one or two questions. You stood here, you say—just here?'

"'Just here, ma'am,' she answered.

"'And the murder was committed there?'

"'Yes, where the grass seems to grow a bit greener—you notice it, don't you, just there, to your right.'

"'I see,' I replied with a shudder, which I could not repress. 'Do you mind telling me how it was that you happened to be out of your bed at such a late hour at night?'

"She looked very sullen, and set her lips tightly. I gazed full at her, waiting for her to speak.

"'The man whose blood was shed was my lover—we had just had a quarrel,' she said, at last.

"'What about?'

"'That's my secret,' she replied.

"'How is it you did not mention the fact of the quarrel at the trial?' I asked.

"She looked full up at me.

"'I was not asked,' she answered; 'that's my secret, and I don't tell it to anybody. It was here I stood, just where your feet are planted, and I saw it done—the moon came out for a minute, and I saw everything—even to the look on the dead man's face and the look on the face of the man who took his life. I saw it all. I ain't been the same woman since.'

"'I am not surprised,' I replied. 'You may leave me when I have said one thing.'

"'What is that, ma'am?'

"She raised her dark eyes. I saw fear in their depths.

"'You saw two men that night, Hetty Vincent,' I said—'one, the man who was murdered, was Horace Frere, but the other man, as there is a God above, was not Frank Everett. I am speaking the truth—you can go now.'

"My words seemed forced from me, Dr. Rumsey, but the effect was terrifying. The wretched creature fell on her knees—she clung to my dress, covering her face with a portion of the mantle which I was wearing.

"'Good God, why do you say that?' she gasped. 'How do you know? Who has told you? Why do you say awful words of that sort?'

"Her excitement made me calm. I stood perfectly silent, but with my heart beating with the queerest sense of exultation and victory.

"'Get up,' I said. She rose trembling to her feet. I laid my hand on her shoulder.

"'You have something to confess,' I said.

"She looked at me again and burst out laughing.

"'What a fool I made of myself just now!' she said. 'I have nothing to confess; what could I have? You spoke so solemn and the place is queer—it always upsets me. I'll go now.' She backed a few steps away.

"'I saw two men on the Plain,' she said then, raising her voice, 'one was Horace Frere—the other was your son, Frank Everett.' Before I could add another word she took to her heels and was quickly out of sight.

"I returned to the Inn and questioned Armitage and his wife. I did not dare to tell them what Hetty had said in her excitement, but I asked for her address and drove out early the following morning to Vincent's farm to visit her. I was told on my arrival that she had left home that morning; that she often did so to visit a relation at a distance. I asked for the address, which was given me somewhat unwillingly. That night I went there, but Hetty had not arrived and nothing was known about her. Since then I have tried in vain to get any clue to her present whereabouts. That is my story, Dr. Rumsey. What do you think of it? Are the wild stories of an excited and over-wrought woman worthy of careful consideration? Is her sudden flight suspicious, or the reverse? I anxiously await your verdict."

Dr. Rumsey remained silent for a moment.

"I am inclined to believe," he said, then very slowly, "that the words uttered by this young woman were merely the result of overstrung nerves; remember, she was in all probability in love with the man who met his death in so tragic a manner. From the remarkable change which you speak of in her appearance, I should say that her nerves had been considerably shattered by the sight she witnessed, and also by the prominent place she was obliged to take in the trial. She has probably dreamt of this thing, and dwelt upon it year in and year out, since it happened. Then, remember, you spoke in a very startling manner and practically accused her of having committed perjury at the time of the trial. Under such circumstances and in the surroundings she was in at the time, she would be very likely to lose her head. As to her sudden disappearance, I confess I cannot quite understand it, unless her nervous system is even more shattered than you incline me to believe; but, stay,—from words she inadvertently let drop, she has evidently become addicted to drink, to opium eating, or some such form of self-indulgence. If that is the case she would be scarcely responsible for her actions. I do not think, Mrs. Everett, unless you can obtain further evidence, that there is anything to go upon in this."

"That is your carefully considered opinion?"

"It is—I am sorry if it disappoints you."

"It does not do that, for I cannot agree with you." Mrs. Everett rose as she spoke, fastened her cloak, and tied her bonnet-strings.

"Your opinion is the cool one of an acute reasoner, but also of a person who is outside the circumstances," she continued.

Rumsey smiled.

"Surely in such a case mine ought to be the one to be relied upon?" he queried.

"No, for there is such a thing as mother's instinct. I will not detain you longer, Dr. Rumsey. You have said what I expected you would say."

Rumsey began the severe routine of his daily work. He was particularly busy that day, and had many anxious cases to consider; it was also one of his hospital mornings, and his hospital cases were, he considered, some of the most important in his practice. Nevertheless Mrs. Everett's face and her words of excitement kept flashing again and again before his memory.

"There is a possibility of that woman losing her senses if her mind is not diverted into another channel, and soon too," he thought to himself. "If she allows her thoughts to dwell much longer on this fixed idea, she will see her son's murderer in the face of each man and woman with whom she comes in contact. Still there is something queer in her story—the young woman whom she addressed on Salisbury Plain was evidently the victim of nervous terror to a remarkable extent—can it be possible that she is concealing something?"

Rumsey thought for a moment over his last idea. Then he dismissed it from his mind.

"No," he said to himself, "a village girl could not stand cross-examination without betraying herself. I shall get as fanciful as Mrs. Everett if I dwell any longer upon this problem. After all there is no problem to consider. Why not accept the obvious fact? Poor Everett killed his friend in a moment of strong irritation—it was a very plain case of manslaughter."

At the appointed hour Margaret Awdrey appeared on the scene. She was immediately admitted into Dr. Rumsey's presence. He asked her to seat herself, and took a chair facing her. It was Margaret's way to be always very direct. She was direct now, knowing that her auditor's time was of extreme value.

"I have not troubled you about my husband for some years," she began.

"You have not," he replied.

"Do you remember what I last told you about him?"

"Perfectly. But excuse me one moment; to satisfy you I will look up his case in my casebook. Do you remember the year when you last spoke to me about him?"

Margaret instantly named the date, not only of year, but of month. Dr. Rumsey quickly looked up the case. He laid his finger on the open page in which he had entered all particulars, ran his eyes rapidly over the notes he had made at the time, and then turned to Mrs. Awdrey.

"I find, as I expected, that I have forgotten nothing," he said. "I was right in my conjectures, was I not? Your husband's symptoms were due to nervous distress?"

"I wish I could say so," replied Margaret.

Dr. Rumsey slightly raised his brows.

"Are there fresh symptoms?" he asked.

"He is not well. I must tell you exactly how he is affected."

The doctor bent forward to listen. Margaret began her story.

"Since the date of our marriage there has been a very gradual, but also a marked deterioration in my husband's character," she said. "But until lately he has been in possession of excellent physical health, his appetite has been good, he has been inclined for exercise, and has slept well. In short, his bodily health has been without a flaw. Accompanying this state of physical well-being there has been a very remarkable mental torpor."

"Are you not fanciful on that point?" asked Dr. Rumsey.

"I am not. Please remember that I have known him since he was a boy. As a boy he was particularly ambitious, full of all sorts of schemes for the future—many of these schemes were really daring and original. He did well at school, and better than well at Balliol. When we became engaged his strong sense of ambition was quite one of the most remarkable traits of his character. He always spoke of doing much with his life. The idea was that as soon as possible he was to enter the House, and he earnestly hoped that when that happy event took place he would make his mark there. One by one all these thoughts, all these hopes and aims, have dropped away from his mind; each year has robbed him of something, until at last he has come to that pass when even books fail to arouse any interest in him. He sits for many hours absolutely doing nothing, not even sleeping, but gazing straight before him into vacancy. Our little son is almost the only person who has any power to rouse him. He is devoted to the child, but his love even for little Arthur is tempered by that remarkable torpor—he never plays with the boy, who is a particularly strong-willed, spirited child, but likes to sit with him on his knee, the child's arms clasped round his neck. He has trained the little fellow to sit perfectly still. The child is devoted to his father, and would do anything for him. As the years have gone on, my husband has become more and more a man of few words—I now believe him to be a man of few thoughts—of late he has been subject to moods of deep depression, and although he is my husband, I often feel, truly as I love him, that he is more like a log than a man."

Tears dimmed Margaret's eyes; she hastily wiped them away.

"I would not trouble you about all this," she continued, "but for a change which has taken place within the last few months. That change directly affects my husband's physical health, and as such is the case I feel it right to consult you about it."

"Yes, speak—take your own time—I am much interested," said the doctor.

"The change in my husband's health of body has also begun gradually," continued Mrs. Awdrey. "You know, of course, that he is now the owner of Grandcourt. He has taken a great dislike to the place—in my opinion, an unaccountable dislike. He absolutely refuses to live there. Now I am fond of Grandcourt, and our little boy always seems in better health and spirits there than anywhere else. I take my child down to the old family place whenever I can spare a week from my husband. Last autumn I persuaded Mr. Awdrey with great difficulty to accompany me to Grandcourt for a week. I have never ceased to regret that visit."

"Indeed, what occurred?" asked the doctor.

"Apparently nothing, and yet evidently a great deal. When we got into the country Robert's apathy seemed to change; he roused himself and became talkative and even excitable. He took long walks, and was particularly fond of visiting Salisbury Plain, that part which lies to the left of the Court. He invariably took these rambles alone, and often went out quite late in the evening, not returning until midnight.

"On the last of these occasions I asked him why he was so fond of walking by himself. He said with a forced laugh, and a very queer look in his eyes, that he was engaged trying to find a favorite walking-stick which he had lost years ago. He laid such stress upon what appeared such a trivial subject that I could scarcely refrain from smiling. When I did so he swore a terrific oath, and said, with blazing eyes, that life or death depended upon the matter which I thought so trivial. Immediately after his brief blaze of passion he became moody, dull, and more inert than ever. The next day we left the Court. It was immediately after that visit that his physical health began to give way. He lost his appetite, and for the last few months he has been the victim of a very peculiar form of sleeplessness."

"Ah, insomnia would be bad in a case like his," said Dr. Rumsey.

"It has had a very irritating effect upon him. His sleeplessness, like all other symptoms, came on gradually. At the same time he became intensely sensitive to the slightest noise. Against my will he tried taking small doses of chloral, but they had the reverse of a beneficial effect upon him. During the last month he has, toward morning, dropped off into uneasy slumber, from which he awakens bathed in perspiration and in a most curious state of terror. Night after night the same sort of thing occurs. He seizes my hand and asks me in a voice choking with emotion if I see anything in the room. 'Nothing,' I answer.

"'Am I awake or asleep?' he asks next.

"'Wide awake,' I say to him.

"'Then it is as I fear,' he replies. 'I see it, I see it distinctly. Can't you? Look, you must see it too. It is just over there, in the direction of the window. Don't you see that sphere of perfect light? Don't you see the picture in the middle?' He shivers; the drops of perspiration fall from his forehead.

"'Margaret,' he says, 'for God's sake look. Tell me that you see it too.'

"'I see nothing,' I answer him.

"'Then the vision is for me alone. It haunts me. What have I done to deserve it? Margaret, there is a circle of light over there—in the centre a picture—it is the picture of a murder. Two men are in it—yes, I know now—I am looking at the Plain near the Court—the moon is hidden behind the clouds—there are two men—they fight. God in heaven, one man falls—the other bends over him. I see the face of the fallen man, but I cannot see the face of the other. I should rest content if I could only see his face. Who is he, Margaret, who is he?'

"He falls back on his pillow half-fainting.

"This sort of thing goes on night after night, Dr. Rumsey. Toward morning the vision which tortures my unhappy husband begins to fade, he sinks into heavy slumber, and awakens late in the morning with no memory whatever of the horrible thing which has haunted him during the hours of darkness.

"The days which follow are more full than ever of that terrible inertia, and now he begins to look what he really is, a man stricken with an awful doom.

"The symptoms you speak of are certainly alarming," said Dr. Rumsey, after a pause. "They point to a highly unsatisfactory state of the nerve centres. These symptoms, joined to what you have already told me of the peculiar malady which Awdrey inherits, make his case a grave one. Of course, I by no means give up hope, but the recurrence of this vision nightly is a singular symptom. Does Awdrey invariably speak of not being able to see the face of the man who committed the murder?"

"Yes, he always makes a remark to that effect. He seems every night to see the murdered man lying on the ground with his face upward, but the man who commits the murder has his back to him. Last night he shrieked out in absolute terror on the subject:

"'Who is the man? That man on the ground is Horace Frere—he has been hewn down in the first strength of his youth—he is a dead man. There stands the murderer, with his back to me, but who is he? Oh, my God!' he cried out with great passion, 'who is the one who has done this deed? Who has murdered Horace Frere? I would give all I possess, all that this wide world contains, only to catch one glimpse of his face.'

"He sprang out of bed as he spoke, and went a step or two in the direction where he saw the peculiar vision, clasping his hands, and staring straight before him like a person distraught, and almost out of his mind. I followed him and tried to take his hand.

"'Robert!' I said, 'you know, don't you, quite well, who murdered Horace Frere? Poor fellow, it was not murder in the ordinary sense. Frank Everett is the name of the man whose face you cannot see. But it is an old story now, and you have nothing to do with it, nothing whatever—don't let it dwell any longer on your mind.'

"'Ha, but he carries my stick,' he shrieked out, and then he fell back in a state of unconsciousness against the bed."

"And do you mean to tell me that he remembered nothing of this agony in the morning?" queried Dr. Rumsey.

"Nothing whatever. At breakfast he complained of a slight headache and was particularly dull and moody. When I came off to you he had just started for a walk in the Park with our little boy."

"I should like to see your husband, and to talk to him," said Dr. Rumsey, rising abruptly. "Can you manage to bring him here?"

"I fear I cannot, for he does not consider himself ill."

"Shall you be at home this evening?"

"Yes, we are not going out to-night."

"Then I'll drop in between eight and nine on a friendly visit. You must not be alarmed if I try to lead up to the subject of these nightly visions, for I would infinitely rather your husband remembered them than that they should quite slip from his memory."

"Thank you," answered Margaret. "I will leave you alone with him when you call to-night."

"It may be best for me to see him without anyone else being present."

Margaret Awdrey soon afterward took her leave.

That night, true to his appointment, Dr. Rumsey made his appearance at the Awdreys' house in Seymour Street. He was shown at once into the drawing-room, where Awdrey was lying back in a deep chair on one side of the hearth, and Margaret was softly playing a sonata of Beethoven's in the distance. She played with great feeling and power, and did not use any notes. The part of the room where she sat was almost in shadow, but the part round the fire where Awdrey had placed himself was full of bright light.

Margaret's dark eyes looked full of painful thought when the great doctor was ushered into the room. She did not see him at first, then she noticed him and faltered in her playing. She took her fingers from the piano, and rose to meet him.

"Pray go on, Margaret. What are you stopping for?" cried her husband. "Nothing soothes me like your music. Go on, go on. I see the moonlight on the trees, I feel the infinite peace, the waves are beating on the shore, there is rest." He broke off abruptly, starting to his feet. "I beg your pardon, Dr. Rumsey, I assure you I did not see you until this moment."

"I happened to have half-an-hour at my disposal, and thought I would drop in for a chat," said Dr. Rumsey in his pleasant voice.

Awdrey's somewhat fretful brow relaxed.

"You are heartily welcome," he said. "Have you dined? Will you take anything?"

"I have dined, and I only want one thing," said Dr. Rumsey.

"Pray name it; I'll ring for it immediately."

"You need not do that, for the person to give it to me is already in the room."

The doctor bowed to Margaret as he spoke.

"I love the 'Moonlight Sonata' beyond all other music," he said. "Will you continue playing it, Mrs. Awdrey? Will you rest a tired physician as well as your husband with your music?"

"With all the pleasure in the world," she replied. She returned at once to her shady corner, and the soothing effects of the sonata once more filled the room. For a short time Awdrey sat upright, forced into attention of others by the fact of Dr. Rumsey's presence, but he soon relaxed the slight effort after self-control, and lay back in his chair once again with his eyes half shut.

Rumsey listened to the music and watched his strange patient at the same time.

Margaret suddenly stopped, almost as abruptly as if she had had a signal. She walked up the room, and stood in the bright circle of light. She looked very lovely, and almost spiritual—her face was pale—her eyes luminous as if lit from within—her pathetic and perfect lips were slightly apart. Rumsey thought her something like an angel who was about to utter a benediction.

"I am going up now to see little Arthur," she said. She glanced at her husband, and left the room.

Rumsey had not failed to observe that Awdrey did not even glance at his wife when she stood on the hearth. There was a full moment's pause after she left the room. Awdrey's eyes were half closed, they were turned in the direction of the bright blaze. Rumsey looked full at him.

"Strange case, strange man," he muttered under his breath. "There is something for me to unravel here. The man who is insensate enough not to see the beauty in that woman's face, not to revel in the love she bestows on him—he is a log, not a man—and yet——"

"Are you well?" cried the doctor abruptly. He spoke on purpose with great distinctness, and his words had something the effect of a pistol-shot.

Awdrey sat bolt upright and stared full at him.

"Why do you ask me that question?" he replied, irritation in his tone.

"Because I wish to question you with regard to your health," said Dr. Rumsey. "Whether you feel it or not, you are by no means well."

"Indeed! What do I look like?"

"Like a man who sees more than he ought," replied the doctor with deliberation. "But before we come to that may I ask you a question?"

Awdrey looked disturbed—he got up and stood with his back to the fire.

"Ask what you please," he said, rubbing up his hair as he spoke. "As there is a heaven above, Dr. Rumsey, you see a wretched man before you to-night."

"My dear fellow, what strong words! Surely, you of all people——"

Awdrey interrupted with a hollow laugh.

"Ah," he said, "it looks like it, does it not? In any circle, among any concourse of people, I should be pointed out as the fortunate man. I have money—I have a very good and beautiful wife—I am the father of as fine a boy as the heart of man could desire. I belong to one of the old and established families of our country, and I also, I suppose, may claim the inestimable privilege to youth, for I am only twenty-six years of age—nevertheless——" He shuddered, looked down the long room, and then closed his eyes.

"I am glad I came here," said Dr. Rumsey. "Believe me, my dear sir, the symptoms you have just described are by no means uncommon in the cases of singularly fortunate individuals like yourself. The fact is, you have got too much. You want to empty yourself of some of your abundance in order that contentment and health of mind may flow in."

Awdrey stared at the doctor with lack-lustre eyes. Then he shook his head.

"I am past all that," he said. "I might at the first have managed to make a superhuman effort; but now I have no energy for anything. I have not even energy sufficient to take away my own life, which is the only thing on all God's earth that I crave to do."

"Come, come, Awdrey, you must not allow yourself to speak like that. Now sit down. Tell me, if you possibly can, exactly what you feel."

"Why should I tell you? I am not your patient."

"But I want you to be."

"Is that why you came here this evening?"

Dr. Rumsey paused before he replied; he had not expected this question.

"I will answer you frankly," he said, with a pause. "Your wife came to see me about you. She did not wish me to mention the fact of her visit, but I believe I am wise in keeping nothing back from you. You love your wife, don't you?"

"I suppose I do; that is, if I love anybody."

"Of course, you love her. Don't sentimentalize over a fact. She came to see me because her love for you is over-abundant. It makes her anxious; you have given her, Awdrey, a great deal of anxiety lately.

"I cannot imagine how. I have done nothing."

"That is just it. You have done too little. She is naturally terribly anxious. She told me one or two things about your state which I do not consider quite satisfactory. I said it would be necessary for me to have an interview with you, and asked her to beg of you to call at my house. She said you did not consider yourself ill, and might not be willing to come to me. I then resolved to come to you, and here I am."

"It is good of you, Rumsey, but you can do nothing; I am not really ill. It is simply that something—I have not the faintest idea what—has killed my soul. I believe, before heaven, that I have stated the case in a nutshell. You may be, and doubtless are, a great doctor, but you have not come across living men with dead souls before."

"I have not Awdrey; nor is your soul dead. You state an impossibility."

Awdrey started excitedly. His face, which had been deadly pale, now blazed with animation and color.

"Learned as you are," he cried, "you will gain some fresh and valuable experience from me to-night. I am the strangest patient you ever attempted to cure. You have roused me, and it is good to be roused. Perhaps my soul is not dead after all—perhaps it is struggling with a demon which crushes it down."

Dr. Rumsey did not reply to this for a moment, then he spoke quietly.

"Tell me everything," he said. "Nothing you can say will startle me, but if there is any possibility of my helping you I must know the case as far as you can give it me."

"I have but little to say," replied Awdrey. "I am paralyzed day after day simply by want of feeling. Even a sense of pain, of irritation, is a relief—the deadness of my life is so overpowering. Do you know the history of my house?"

"Your wife has told me. It is a queer story."

"It is a damnable story," said Awdrey. "With such a fate hanging over me, why was I born? Why did my father marry? Why did my mother bring a man-child into the world? Men with dooms like mine ought never to have descendants. I curse the thought that I have a child myself. It is all cruel, monstrous."

"But the thing you fear has not fallen upon you," said Dr. Rumsey.

"Has it not? I believe it has."

"How can you possibly imagine what is not the case?"

"Dr. Rumsey," said Awdrey, advancing a step or two to meet him, "I don't imagine what I know. Look at me. I am six-and-twenty. Do I look that age?"

"I must confess that you look older than your years."

"Aye, I should think so. See my hair already mingled with gray. Feel this nerveless hand. Is this the hand of the English youth of six-and-twenty? Look at my eyes—how dull they are; are they the eyes of a man in his prime? No, no, I am going down to the grave as the other men of my house have gone, simply because I cannot help it. Like those who have gone before me I slip, and slip, and slip, and cannot get a grip of life anywhere, and so I go out, or go over the precipice into God knows what—anyhow I go."

"Poor fellow, he is far worse than I had any idea of," thought the doctor. He took his patient's hand, and led him to a seat.

"You are quite ill enough to see a doctor," he said, "and ought to have had advice long ago. I mean to take you up, Awdrey. From this moment you must consider yourself my patient."

"If you can do anything for me I shall be glad—that is, no, I shall not be glad, for I am incapable of the sensation, but I am aware it is the right thing to put myself into your hands. What do you advise?"

"I cannot tell you until I know more. My present impression is that you are simply the victim of nerve terrors. You have dwelt upon the doom of your house for so long a time that you are now fully convinced that you are one of the victims. But you must please remember that the special feature of the tragedy, for tragedy it is, has not occurred in your case, for you have never forgotten anything of consequence."

"Only one thing—it sounds stupid even to speak of it, but it worries me inconceivably. There was a murder committed on Salisbury Plain the night before I got engaged to Margaret. On that night I lost a walking-stick which I was particularly fond of."

"Your wife mentioned to me that you were troubled on that point," broke in Dr. Rumsey. "Pray dismiss it at once and forever from your mind. The fact of your having forgotten such a trifle is not of the slightest consequence."

"Do you think so? The fret about it has fastened itself very deeply into my mind."

"Well, don't think of it again—the next time it occurs to torment you, just remember that I, who have made brain troubles like yours my special study, think nothing at all about it."

"Thank you, I'll try to remember."

"Do so. Now, I wish to talk to you about another matter. You sleep badly."

"Do I?" Awdrey raised his brows. "I cannot recall that fact."

"Nevertheless you do. Your wife speaks of it. Now in your state of health it is most essential that you should have good nights."

"I always feel an added sense of depression when I am going to bed," said Awdrey, "but I am unconscious that I have bad nights—what can Margaret mean?"

"I trust that your wife's natural nervousness with regard to you makes her inclined to exaggerate your symptoms, but I may as well say frankly that some of the things she has mentioned, as occurring night after night, have given me uneasiness. Now I should like to be with you during one of your bad nights."

"What do you mean?"

"Come home with me to-night, my good fellow," said the doctor, laying his hand on Awdrey's shoulder—"we will pass this night together. What do you say?"

"Your request surprises me very much, but it would be a relief—I will go," said Awdrey.

He turned and rang the bell as he spoke—a servant appeared, who was sent with a message to Mrs. Awdrey. She came to the drawing-room in a few minutes. Her face of animation, wakefulness of soul and feeling, made a strong contrast to Awdrey's haggard, lifeless expression.

He went up to his wife and put his hand on her shoulder.

"You have been telling tales of me, Maggie," he said. "You complain of something I know nothing about—my bad nights."

"They are very bad, Robert, very terrible," she replied.

"I cannot recall a single thing about them."

"I wish you could remember," she said.

"I have made a suggestion to your husband," interrupted Dr. Rumsey, "which I am happy to say he approves of. He returns with me to my house to-night. I will promise to look after him. If he does happen to have a bad night I shall be witness to it. Now pray go to bed yourself and enjoy the rest you sorely need."

Margaret tried to smile in reply, but her eyes filled with tears. Rumsey saw them, but Awdrey took no notice—he was staring straight into vacancy, after his habitual fashion.

A moment later he and Rumsey left the house together. Ten minutes afterward Rumsey opened his own door with a latchkey.

"It is late," he said to his guest. He glanced at the clock as he spoke. "At this hour I always indulge in supper—it is waiting for me now. Will you come and have a glass of port with me?"

Awdrey murmured something in reply—the two men went into the dining-room, where Rumsey, without apparently making any fuss, saw that his guest ate and drank heartily. During the meal the doctor talked, and Awdrey replied in monosyllables—sometimes, indeed, not replying at all. Dr. Rumsey took no notice of this. When the meal, which really only took a few minutes, was over, he rose.

"I am going to take you to your bedroom now," he said.

"Thanks," answered Awdrey. "The whole thing seems extraordinary," he added. "I cannot make out why I am to sleep in your house."

"You sleep here as my patient. I am going to sit up with you."

"You! I cannot allow it, doctor!"

"Not a word, my dear sir. Pray don't overwhelm me with thanks. Your case is one of great interest to me. I shall certainly not regret the few hours I steal from sleep to watch it."

Awdrey made a dull reply. The two men went upstairs. Rumsey had already given orders, and a bedroom had been prepared. A bright fire burned in the grate, and electric light made the room cheerful as day. The bed was placed in an alcove by itself. In front of the fire was drawn up a deep, easy chair, a small table, a reading-lamp ready to be lighted, and several books.

"For me?" said Awdrey, glancing at these. "Excuse me, Dr. Rumsey, but I do not appreciate books. Of late months I have had a difficulty in centring my thoughts on what I read. Even the most exciting story fails to arouse my attention."

"These books are for me," said the doctor. "You are to go straight to bed. You will find everything you require for the night in that part of the room. Pray undress as quickly as possible—I shall return at the end of a quarter of an hour."

"Will you give me a sleeping draught? I generally take chloral."

"My dear sir, I will give you nothing. It is my impression you will have a good night without having recourse to sedatives. Get into bed now—you look sleepy already."

The doctor left the room. When he came back at the end of the allotted time, Awdrey was in bed—he was lying on his back, with his eyes already closed. His face looked very cadaverous and ghastly pale; but for the gentle breathing which came from his partly opened lips he might almost have been a dead man.

"Six-and-twenty," muttered the doctor, as he glanced at him, "six-and-forty, six-and-fifty, rather. This is a very queer case. There is something at the root of it. I can no longer make light of Mrs. Awdrey's fears—something is killing that man inch by inch. He has described his own condition very accurately. He is slipping out of life because he has not got grip enough to hold it. Nevertheless, at the present moment, no child could sleep more tranquilly."

The doctor turned off the electric light, and returned to his own bright part of the room. The bed in which Awdrey lay was now in complete shadow. Dr. Rumsey opened a medical treatise, but he did not read. On the contrary, the book lay unnoticed on his knee, while he himself stared into the blaze of the fire—his brows were contracted in anxious thought. He was thinking of the sleeper and his story—of the tragedy which all this meant to Margaret. Then, by a queer chain of connection, his memory reverted to Mrs. Everett—her passionate life quest—her determination to consider her son innocent. The queer scene she had described as taking place between Hetty and herself returned vividly once more to the doctor's retentive memory.

"Is it possible that Awdrey can in any way be connected with that tragedy?" he thought. "It looks almost like it. According to his own showing, and according to his wife's showing, the strange symptoms which have brought him to his present pass began about the date of that somewhat mysterious murder. I have thought it best to make light of that lapse of memory which worries the poor fellow so much in connection with his walking-stick, but is there not something in it after all? Can he possibly have witnessed the murder? Would it be possible for him to throw any light upon it and save Everett? If I really thought so? But no, the hypothesis is too wild."

Dr. Rumsey turned again to his book. He was preparing a lecture of some importance. As he read he made many notes. The sleeper in the distant part of the room slept on calmly—the night gradually wore itself away—the fire smouldered in the grate.

"If this night passes without any peculiar manifestation on Awdrey's part, I shall begin to feel assured that the wife has overstated the case," thought the doctor. He bent forward as this thought came to him to replenish the fire. In the act of doing so he made a slight noise. Whether this noise disturbed the sleeper or not no one can say—Awdrey abruptly turned in bed, opened his eyes, uttered a heavy groan, and then sat up.

"There it is again," he cried. "Margaret, are you there?—Margaret, come here."

Dr. Rumsey immediately approached the bed.

"Your wife is not in the room, Awdrey," he said—"you remember, don't you, that you are passing the night with me."

Awdrey rubbed his eyes—he took no notice of Dr. Rumsey's words. He stared straight before him in the direction of one of the windows.

"There it is," he said, "the usual thing—the globe of light and the picture in the middle. There lies the murdered man on his back. Yes, that is the bit of the Plain that I know so well—the moon drifts behind the clouds—now it shines out, and I see the face of the murdered man—but the murderer, who is he? Why will he keep his back to me? Good God! why can't I see his face? Look, can't you see for yourself? Margaret, can't you see?—do you notice the stick in his hand?—it is my stick—and—the scoundrel, he wears my clothes. Yes, those clothes are mine. My God, what does this mean?"

"Come, Awdrey, wake up, you don't know what you are talking about," said the doctor. He grasped his patient firmly by one arm, and shook him slightly. The dazed and stricken man gazed at the doctor in astonishment.

"Where am I, and what is the matter?" he asked.

"You are spending the night in my house, and have just had a bad dream," said Dr. Rumsey. "Don't go back to bed just yet. Come and sit by the fire for a few minutes."

As the doctor spoke, he put a warm padded dressing-gown of his own over his shivering and cowed-looking patient.

Awdrey wrapped himself in it, and approached the fire. Dr. Rumsey drew a chair forward. He noticed the shaking hands, thin almost to emaciation, the sunken cheeks, the glazed expression of the eyes, the look of age and mental irritation which characterized the face.

"Poor fellow? no wonder that he should be simply slipping out of life if this kind of thing continues night after night," thought the doctor. "What is to be done with him? His is one of the cases which baffle Science. Well, at least, he wants heaps of nourishment to enable him to bear up. I'll go downstairs and prepare a meal for him."

He spoke aloud.

"You shiver, Awdrey, are you cold?"

"Not very," replied Awdrey, trying to smile, although his lips chattered. He looked into the fire, and held out one hand to the grateful blaze.

"You'll feel much better after you have taken a prescription which I mean to make up for you. I'll go and prepare it now. Do you mind being left alone?"

"Certainly not. Why should I?"

"He has already forgotten his terrors," thought Dr. Rumsey. "Queer case, incomprehensible. I never met one like it before. In these days, it is true, one comes across all forms of psychological distress. Nothing now ought to be new or startling to medical science, but this certainly is marvellous."

The doctor speedily returned with a plate of cold meat, some bread and butter, and a bottle of champagne.

"As we are both spending the night other than it should be spent," he said, "we must have nourishment. I am going to eat, will you join me?"

"I feel hungry," answered Awdrey. "I should be glad of something."

The doctor fed him as though he were an infant. He drank off two glasses of champagne, and then the color returned to his cheeks, and some animation to his sunken eyes.

"You look better," said the doctor. "Now, you will get back to bed, won't you? After that champagne a good sleep will put some mettle into you. It is not yet four o'clock. You have several hours to devote to slumber."

The moment Rumsey began to speak, Awdrey's eyes dilated.

"I remember something," he said.

"I dare say you do—many things—what are you specially alluding to?"

"I saw something a short time ago in this room. The memory of it comes dimly back to me. I struggle to grasp it fully. Is your house said to be haunted, Dr. Rumsey?"

Dr. Rumsey laughed.

"Not that I am aware of," he replied.

"Well, haunted or not, I saw something." Awdrey rose slowly as he spoke—he pointed in the direction of the farthest window.

"I was sleeping soundly but suddenly found myself broad awake," he began—"I saw over there"—he pointed with his hand to the farthest window, "what looked like a perfect sphere or globe of light—in the centre of this light was a picture. I see the whole thing now in imagination, but the picture is dim—it worries me, I want to see it better. No, I will not get back to bed."

"You had a bad dream and are beginning to remember it," said Rumsey.

"It was not a dream at all. I was wide awake. Stay—don't question me—my memory becomes more vivid instant by instant. I was wide awake as I said—I got up—I approached the thing. It never swerved from the one position—it was there by the window—a sphere of light and the picture in the middle. There were two men in the picture."

"A nightmare, a nightmare," said the doctor. "What did you eat for dinner last night?"

"It was not an ordinary nightmare—my memory is now quite vivid. I recall the whole vision. I saw a picture of something that happened. Years ago, Dr. Rumsey—over five years ago now—there was a murder committed on the Plain near my place. Two men, undergraduates of Oxford, were staying at our village inn—they fought about a girl with whom they were both in love. One man killed the other. The murder was committed in a moment of strong provocation and the murderer only got penal servitude. He is serving his time now. It seems strange, does it not, that I should have seen a complete picture of the murder! The whole thing was very vivid and distinct—it has, in short, burnt itself into my brain."

Awdrey raised his hand as he spoke and pressed it to his forehead. "My pulse is bounding just here," he said—he touched his temple. "I have only to shut my eyes to see in imagination what I saw in reality half an hour ago. Why should I be worried with a picture of a murder committed five years ago?"

"It probably made a deep impression on you at the time," said Dr. Rumsey. "You are now weak and your nerves much out of order—your brain has simply reverted back to it. If I were you I would only think of it as an ordinary nightmare. Pray let me persuade you to go back to bed."

"I could not—I am stricken by the most indescribable terror."

"Nonsense! You a man!"

"You may heap what opprobrium you like on me, but I cannot deny the fact. I am full of cowardly terror. I cannot account for my sensations. The essence of my torture lies in the fact that I am unable to see the face of the man who committed the murder."

"Oh, come, why should you see his face—you know who he was?"

"That's just it, doctor. I wish to God I did know." Awdrey approached close to Dr. Rumsey, and stared into his eyes. His own eyes were queer and glittering. He seemed instinctively to feel that he had said too much, for he drew back a step, putting his hand again to his forehead and staring fixedly out into vacancy.

"You believe that I am talking nonsense," he said, after a pause.

"I believe that you are a sad victim to your own nervous fears. You need not go to bed unless you like. Dress yourself and sit here by the fire. You will very likely fall asleep in this arm-chair. I shall remain close to you."

"You are really good to me, and I would thank you if I were capable of gratitude. Yes, I'll get into my clothes."

Rumsey turned on the electric light, and Awdrey with trembling fingers dressed himself. When he came back to his easy-chair by the warm fire he said suddenly:

"Give me a sheet of paper and a pencil, will you?"

The doctor handed him a blank sheet from his own note-paper, and furnished him with a pencil.

"Now I will sketch what I saw for you," he said.

He drew with bold touches a broad sphere of light. In the centre was a picture, minute but faithful.

At one time Awdrey had been fond of dabbling in art. He sketched a night scene now, with broad effects—a single bar of moonlight lit up everything with vivid distinctness. A man lay on the ground stretched out flat and motionless—another man bent over him in a queer attitude—he held a stick in his hand—he was tall and slender—there was a certain look about his figure! Awdrey dropped his pencil and stared furtively with eyes dilated with horror at his own production. Then he put his sketch face downward on the table, and turned a white and indescribably perplexed countenance to Dr. Rumsey.

"What I have drawn is not worth looking at," he said, simulating a yawn as he spoke. "After all I cannot quite reproduce what I saw. I believe I shall doze off in this chair."

"Do so," said the doctor.

A few minutes later, when the patient was sound asleep, Dr. Rumsey lifted the paper on which Awdrey had made his sketch. He looked fixedly at the vividly worked-up picture.

"The man whose back is alone visible has an unmistakable likeness to Awdrey," he muttered. "Poor fellow, what does this mean!—diseased nerves of course. The next thing he will say is that he committed the murder himself. He certainly needs immediate treatment. But what to do is the puzzle."

When he awoke Awdrey felt much better. He expressed surprise at finding himself sitting up instead of in bed, and Rumsey saw that he had once more completely forgotten the occurrence of the night. The doctor resolved that he should not see the sketch he had made—he put it carefully away therefore in one of his own private drawers, for he knew that it might possibly be useful later on. At the present moment the patient was better without it.

The two men breakfasted together, and then Rumsey spoke.

"Now," he said, "I won't conceal the truth from you. I watched you last night with great anxiety—I am glad I sat up with you, for I am now able to make a fairly correct diagnosis of your case. You are certainly very far from well—you are in a sort of condition when a very little more might overbalance your mind. I tell you this because I think it best for you to know the exact truth—at the same time pray do not be seriously alarmed, there is nothing as yet in your case to prevent you from completely recovering your mental equilibrium, but, in my opinion, to do so you must have complete change of air and absolutely fresh surroundings. I recommend therefore that you go away from home immediately. Do not take your child nor yet your wife with you. If you commission me to do so, I can get you a companion in the shape of a clever young doctor who will never intrude his medical knowledge on you, but yet will be at hand to advise you in case the state of your nerves requires such interference. I shall put him in possession of one or two facts with regard to your nervous condition, but will not tell him too much. Make up your mind to go away at once, Awdrey, within the week if possible. Start with a sea voyage—I should recommend to the Cape. The soothing influence of the sea on nerves like yours could not but be highly beneficial. Take a sea voyage—to the Cape by preference, but anywhere. It does not greatly matter where you go. The winter is on us, don't spend it in England. Keep moving about from one place to another. Don't over-fatigue yourself in any way, but at the same time allow heaps of fresh impressions to filter slowly through your brain. They will have a healthy and salutary effect. It is my opinion that by slow but sure degrees, if you fully take my advice in this matter, you will forget what now assumes the aspect of monomania. In short, you will forget yourself, and other lives and other interests mingling with yours will give you the necessary health and cure. I must ask you to leave me now, for it is the hour when my patients arrive for consultation, but I will call round at your house late this evening. Do you consent to my scheme?

"I must take a day to think it over—this kind of thing cannot be planned in a hurry."

"In your case it can and ought to be. You have heaps of money, which is, as a rule, the main difficulty. Go home to your wife, tell her at once what I recommend. This is Wednesday, you ought to be out of London on Saturday. Well, my dear fellow, if you have not sufficient energy to carry out what I consider essential to your recovery, some one else must have energy in your behalf and simply take you away. Good-by—good-by."

Awdrey shook hands with the doctor and slowly left the house. When he had gone a dozen yards down the street he had almost forgotten the prescription which had been given to him. He had a dull sort of wish, which scarcely amounted to a wish in his mind, to reach home in time to take little Arthur for his morning walk. Beyond that faint desire he had no longing of any sort.

He had nearly reached his own house when he was conscious of footsteps hurrying after him. Presently they reached his side, and he heard the hurried panting of quickened breath. He turned round with a vague sort of wonder to see who had dared to come up and accost him in this way. To his surprise he saw that the intruder was a woman. She was dressed in the plain ungarnished style of the country. She wore an old-fashioned and somewhat seedy jacket which reached down to her knees, her dress below was of a faded summer tint, and thin in quality. Her hat was trimmed with rusty velvet, she wore a veil which only reached half way down her face. Her whole appearance was odd, and out of keeping with her surroundings.

"Mr. Awdrey, you don't know me?" she cried, in a panting voice.

"Yes, I do," said Awdrey. He stopped in his walk and stared at her.

"Is it possible," he continued, "that you are little Hetty Armitage?"

"I was, sir, I ain't now; I'm Hetty Vincent now. I ventured up to town unbeknown to any one to see you, Mr. Awdrey. It is of the greatest importance that I should have a word with you, sir. Can you give me a few minutes all alone?"

"Certainly I can, Hetty," replied Awdrey, in a kind voice. A good deal of his old gentleness and graciousness of manner returned at sight of Hetty. He overlooked her ugly attire—in short, he did not see it. She recalled old times to him—gay old times before he had known sorrow or trouble. She belonged to his own village, to his own people. He was conscious of a grateful sense of refreshment at meeting her again.

"You shall come home with me," he said. "My wife will be glad to welcome you. How are all the old folks at Grandcourt?"

"I believe they are well, sir, but I have not been to Grandcourt lately. My husband's farm is three miles from the village. Mr. Robert," dropping her voice, "I cannot go home with you. It would be dangerous if I were to be seen at your house."

"Dangerous!" said Awdrey in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"What I say, sir; I must not be seen talking to you. On no account must we two be seen together. I have come up to London unbeknown to anybody, because it is necessary for me to tell you something, and to ask you—to ask you—Oh, my God!" continued Hetty, raising her eyes skyward as she spoke, "how am I to tell him?"

She turned white to her lips now; she trembled from head to foot.

"Sir," she continued, "there's some one who suspects."

"Suspects?" said Awdrey, knitting his brows, "Suspects what? What have suspicious people to do with me? You puzzle me very much by this extraordinary talk. Are you quite well yourself? I recall now that you always were a mysterious little thing; but you are greatly changed, Hetty." He turned and gave her a long look.

"I know I am, sir, but that don't matter now. I did not run this risk to talk about myself. Mr. Robert, there's one living who suspects."

"Come home with me and tell me there," said Awdrey—he was conscious of a feeling of irritation, otherwise Hetty's queer words aroused no emotion of any sort within him.

"I cannot go home with you, sir—I came up to London at risk to myself in order to warn you."

"Of what—of whom?"

"Of Mrs. Everett, sir."

"Mrs. Everett! my wife's friend!—you must have taken leave of your sense. See, we are close to the Green Park; if you won't come to my house, let us go there. Then you can tell me quickly what you want to say."

Awdrey motioned to Hetty to follow him. They crossed the road near Hyde Park Corner, and soon afterward were in the shelter of the Green Park.

"Now, speak out," said the Squire. "I cannot stay long with you, as I want to take my little son for his customary walk. What extraordinary thing have you to tell me about Mrs. Everett?"

"Mr. Robert, you may choose to make light of, but in your heart ... there, I'll tell you everything. Mrs. Everett was down at Grandcourt lately—she was stopping at uncle's inn in the village. She walked out one day to the Plain—by ill-luck she met me on her road. She got me to show her the place where the murder was committed. I stood just by the clump of elders where—but of course you have forgotten, sir. Mrs. Everett stood with me, and I showed her the very spot. I described the scene to her, and showed her just where the two men fought together."

The memory of his dream came back to Awdrey. He was very quiet now—his brain was quite alert.

"Go on, Hetty," he said. "Do you know this interests me vastly. I have been troubled lately with visions of that queer murder. Only last night I had one. Now why should such visions come to one who knows nothing whatever about it?"

"Well, sir, they do say——"

"What?"

"It is the old proverb," muttered Hetty. "'Murder will out.'"

"I know the proverb, but I don't understand your application," replied Awdrey, but he looked thoughtful. "If you were troubled with these bad visions or dreams I should not be surprised," he continued, "for you really witnessed the thing. By the way, as you are here, perhaps you can help me. I lost my stick at the time of the murder, and never found it since. I would give a good deal to find it. What is that you say?"

"You'll never find it, sir. Thank the good God above, you'll never find it."

"I am glad that you recognize the loss not to be a trifle. Most people laugh when I speak of anything so trivial as a stick. You say I shall never find it again—perhaps so. The forgetting it so completely troubles me, however. Hetty, I had a bad dream last night—no, it was not really a dream, it was a vision. I saw that murder—I witnessed the whole thing. I saw the dead man, and I saw the back of the man who committed the murder. I tried hard, but I could not get a glimpse of his face. I wanted to see his face badly. What is the matter, girl? How white you look."

"Don't say another word, sir. I have borne much for you and for your people, but there are limits, and if you say another word, I shall lose my self-control."

"I am sorry my talk has such an effect upon you, Hetty. You don't look too happy, my little girl. Your face is old—I hope your husband is good to you."

"He is as good as I deserve, Mr. Awdrey. I never had any love to give him—he knew that from the first. He married me five years ago because I was pretty, and Aunt Fanny thought I'd best be married—she thought it would make things safer—but it is a mistake to marry when your heart is given to another."

"Ah yes, poor Frere—you were in love with him, were you not?"

"No, sir, that I was not."

"I forgot—it was with Everett—poor girl, no wonder you look old."

Awdrey gave Hetty a weary glance—his attention was already beginning to flag.

"It was not with Mr. Everett," whispered Hetty in a low tone which thrilled with passion.

Awdrey took no notice. His apathy calmed her, and saved her from making a terrible avowal.

"I'll just tell you what I came to say and then leave you, sir," she said in a broken voice. "It is all about Mrs. Everett. She stood with me close to the alders, and I described the scene of the murder and how it took place, and all of a sudden she looked me in the eyes and said something. She said that Mr. Horace Frere was the man who was murdered—but the man who committed the murder was not her son, Mr. Everett. She spoke in an awful sort of voice, and said she knew the truth—she knew that her son was innocent. Oh, sir, I got so awfully frightened—I nearly let the truth out."

"You nearly let the truth out—the truth? What do you mean?"

"Mr. Robert, is it possible that you do not know?"

"I only know what all the rest of the world knows—that Everett is guilty."

"I see, sir, that you still hold to that, and I am glad of it, but Mrs. Everett is the sort of woman to frighten a body. Her eyes seem to pierce right down to your very heart—they seem to read your secret. Mr. Awdrey, will you do what I ask you? Will you leave England for a bit? It would be dreadful for me to have done all that I have done and to find it useless in the end."

Whatever reply Awdrey might have made to this appeal was never uttered. His attention was at this moment effectually turned into another channel. He saw Mrs. Everett, his wife, and boy coming to meet him. The boy, a splendid little fellow with rosy cheeks and vigorous limbs, ran down the path with a glad cry to fling himself into his father's arms. He was a princely looking boy, a worthy scion of the old race. Awdrey, absorbed with his son, took no notice of Hetty. Unperceived by him she slipped down a side path and was lost to view.

"Dad," cried the child, in a voice of rapture.

Margaret and Mrs. Everett came up to the pair.

"I hope you are better, Robert," said his wife.

"I suppose I am," he answered. "I had a fairly good night. How well Arthur looks this morning."

"Poor little boy, he was fretting to come to meet you," said Mrs. Awdrey.

Awdrey turned to speak to Mrs. Everett. There was a good deal of color in her cheeks, and her dark eyes looked brighter and more piercing than ever.

"Forgive me," she said, "for interrupting this conversation. I want to ask you a question. Mr. Awdrey, I saw you walking just now with a woman. Who was she?"